Catherine

Chapter One

He figured he was paying for past sins, large and small, maybe even some unknown that he had never dared acknowledge.

This was the latest reason Gregory Mayfield added to the mental list he composed as cause for his present torment, and to keep his sanity.

Others already explored and listed involved his younger sister Suzanne. Those reasons had definite cause and effect, others were shimmering so faintly that only the spider spinning the web was aware of the connection.

Under the guise of sisterly love, Suzanne, charming minx and dearest to him of all, was certainly capable of offering him torture along with a possible cure.

And in that hope he was suffering through his third day of travel with one Mrs. Horace Pettigrew.

If he had Suzanne within reach, he would disregard his long-held friendship with her husband, and Suzanne’s excellent mothering of the most delightful brood of children, and take serious steps to send his sister on to a greater reward.

Most likely, Suzanne would come back and haunt him.

Another dip in the road, another bone-jarring jolt of the stage traveling at breakneck speed toward the town of Hillsboro. Mrs. Pettigrew began another series of cooing noises.

His fellow passenger, so generously endowed that she required a seat to herself, coaxed her Blenheim spaniel to have another bonbon to calm his tummy.

Gregory spared a glance at his seatmate, a drummer who had tried selling him one of his Colt pistol samples when he discovered that Gregory didn’t own a gun. The man snored in his corner, owing to the empty flask still gripped in one hand.

Won’t you have a bonbon, Mr. Mayfield?

Gregory swallowed hard as his gaze returned to Mrs. Pettigrew. Her coy voice ruffled his nerve ends. He sympathized with the little dog being fed more candy. But not verbally. He had learned his lesson on that score.

Thank you, but I must refuse. He watched the drooping sway of the feathered profusion extended from her hat. Fat sausage curls framed her face. Gregory couldn’t help but liken her curls to the dog’s long ears.

The air inside the stage was stifling. Undoubtedly, it was cooler outside. Mrs. Pettigrew insisted the leather coverings be rolled down and tied in place over the windows once they got under way. She proclaimed there was no view worth mentioning on this stretch of road in the New Mexico Territory. Gregory had to take her word. He had never been west of the Mississippi.

Any gentleman worthy of the name would have given in as graciously as he had done. But he longed for a cooling breeze as the drummer was not prone to frequent bathing. And when he added the fumes of the empty flask to the dog’s excited, damp little accidents concealed in the ponderous folds of his mistress’s gown, it was sheer bravado that he hadn’t lost the contents of his stomach.

As if directed by his thought, the stage’s violent rocking sent his stomach churning.

It was a pity he couldn’t find comfort in the driver’s claim that the stage line had not lost a passenger all week. He shuddered to think what the prior records would reveal.

He had truly come to a sorry pass when such mundane thoughts occupied his time. He liked to blame all the changes he had undergone on his illnesses of the past few months, and often did when questioned. But he admitted to himself that the vague restlessness and boredom had set in long before he had been laid low. It made no sense no matter how many times he examined his feelings.

He liked his ordered life. Routine and organization in all things led to a man’s contentment.

Or so he had believed. What had gone wrong? When had he begun adding his own silent questions to those of his sister’s about the life he had made for himself? Why was he no longer happy?

The jolting sway of the stage as it followed a sharp dip in the road made him close his eyes. Just in time, too. He could see Mrs. Pettigrew getting ready another of her random remarks, which would lead to another round of prying questions. Lord, spare him from matchmaking mamas.

His fortune, amassed through shrewd investments, made him a prime target for those marriage-minded individuals who longed for company in their misery. He received enough invitations from New York’s blue book to keep four men entertained. But he no longer accepted invitations to weekend house parties. Twice he had found unwanted bedmates waiting in his room. One, an attractive widow who made no secret that her husband gambled away her fortune, and the other, a young woman barely out of the schoolroom. He had immediately retreated, found his host for a nightcap and suggested a game of billiards with high enough stakes to while away the night. No one was going to trap him into marriage.

His illness ended the business arrangement with his latest mistress, one in a long string of discreet relationships. Emotional entanglements were not for him. He’d watched one too many friends set aside dreams of the great feats they were going to accomplish, once they had been dragged to the altar. There were times when he wished that his parents or his aunt and uncle were alive, but never when he saw the manipulations those relatives used to enlarge fortune and family.

His sister truly had no idea how lucky she was to have made a love match with an eminently suitable man.

And, as he had assured her time and again, eventually he would marry. But never to someone with Suzanne’s independent nature. She led her husband a merry dance with her involvements in arenas women had no place being.

Yet he couldn’t abide an insipid miss who couldn’t string two thoughts together, much less speak them without consulting her mother.

Other men envied him. They sought his advice on matters of business as well as those of a more delicate nature. They especially admired his adroit evasion of the matchmakers, including his sister. He hadn’t met a woman yet who made him desire her company for more than a few hours, outside of bed, that is.

Suzanne, from her privileged place as his only living blood relative—her family aside—declared him a cynic whose stubbornness would be his ruination.

She wished him happy, and to her that meant marriage. The woman, much as he loved her, was an infernal thorn in his side.

Gossip cloaked as conversation bored him. He didn’t care who was seen in the company of whom, and why it mattered. He didn’t care to know why the merchant princes—of stockyard, railroad and mining fame—were buying impoverished British titles, and the men who claimed them, for their debutante daughters. Nor did it interest him to know—a fact that Suzanne found deplorable—that more young women were turned out of Miss Bidwell’s Finishing School to become brides in their first social season.

Nonsense. The lot of it. He made no secret that a woman quickly lost her appeal, no matter how lovely she was, if beauty and breeding were all she had to offer.

What roused his hunting instinct was the challenge of putting together a successful business deal against odds that were nigh on impossible. Suzanne, with sisterly concern, claimed he was obsessed with making money, and that obsession would likely kill him.

Pride stopped him from admitting that she might be right. It was a painful admission to make, that having faced death’s door, he now found even his greatest joy had begun to pall.

The stress of his thoughts brought back the nameless dissatisfaction to a greater degree. He pressed one hand against his midsection as if he could contain the knife-ike burning pangs setting fire to his stomach.

Mr. Mayfield? You’ve grown quite pale. Mrs. Pettigrew leaned forward to touch his arm.

Gregory opened his eyes. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead and quickly used the handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket to wipe his face.

Won’t you have one of our bonbons? she asked in a solicitous manner. Posie won’t mind sharing. You can see how calm they have kept my little darling.

Gregory refused. Politely, firmly, and then hoped the woman wouldn’t pursue another inane conversation about her pet.

Alas, his hope was crushed as he was once more treated to the history of the spaniel’s breeding. It was a measure of the good manners instilled at an early age and reinforced by society that he managed to maintain his civility. He nodded, not really paying attention, for he had no choice. Well, that wasn’t quite true, he reminded himself. He could ride outside on the driver’s seat.

And as she talked, Mrs. Pettigrew continued to unwrap another candy, pinched off a bit and fed it to the dog, then plopped the balance into her mouth. All was done with accompanying cooing noises.

With the windows blocked there was no place for him to look but the floor. Someday, his sister would pay for this.

Gregory slipped his gold pocket watch from his vest pocket just as Mrs. Pettigrew lifted the watch pinned to her ample breast.

Won’t be much longer now, Mr. Mayfield. Are you being met? If not, my daughter’s carriage will convey you to your destination.

No need to concern yourself. I’m quite sure there will be someone there to meet the stage. It was a necessary lie. He never offended women if he could help himself. Even bores like Mrs. Pettigrew. But he had no intention of continuing any association once they arrived in Hillsboro.

Suzanne had made all the arrangements with an old school friend she had kept in touch with. His sister promised he would have peace and, most of all, privacy to regain his health. Avoiding any future contact with Mrs. Pettigrew was the first step toward that goal. He folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes.

Two bouts of pneumonia had taken their toll on him. But it wasn’t until Suzanne found out about the increased stomach ailments no matter what he ate that she went to war. After numerous arguments—himself on one side, his sister, her husband and learned physicians on the other—Suzanne threatened to keep him from seeing the children he adored. She gave him a browbeating worthy of the veriest shrew. Then, she turned and pleaded that she feared he would meet an untimely end on his present path.

He had had to give in.

Gregory hoped the widow Hill, soon to provide his bed and board, was the opposite of Mrs. Pettigrew.

The first loud crack made him attribute the sound to the driver’s whip. The rolling rumbles that followed brought a sage announcement from Mrs. Pettigrew.

Just a cloudburst, Mr. Mayfield. Our spring weather, don’t you know. The sun will be out before you know it. She confirmed this with a peek behind the leather shade.

Rain struck immediately, proving the woman right. She winked at him behind her spectacles. The dog whimpered. She drew her shawl around the pug-nosed pet, whispering that the storm would pass quickly.

Gregory wasn’t so sure. The rain sounded more like hail striking the trunks and baggage piled on top of the stage. The drummer next to him stirred, emitted a loud snore, then relaxed back in slumber. The forceful drumming noise thankfully obliterated Mrs. Pettigrew’s voice.

The mere thought of having the stage mired in mud with him confined for a longer period of time with this woman and pet made him inwardly shudder. He was no coward, but he wondered if he could walk the rest of the way. And this, despite the threat of another bout of pneumonia. His fingers tightened on the sterling silver knob of his walking stick.

Surely the fates would not be so cruel.

As if in answer, the stage lurched to one side of the road. He prayed harder for journey’s end. A quick end, he amended as candy was once more offered to cure his travel sickness.

The stage appeared to take a turn in the road on two wheels. Another lurch nearly unseated him. The woman’s basket, residing on the seat beside her, spilled its contents on the floor. A thick, dried sausage fell on his foot. Jars went rolling. The dog’s yips were added to Mrs. Pettigrew’s mixture of apology and fear that her goody basket was ruined.

Just as Gregory reached for a jar beneath his seat, a crack sounded. He was thrown forward. He saved himself from landing on the woman’s lap by bracing his hands against the seat. When he tried to right himself, he found the stage rocking to a stop. The floor was now tilted.

Mrs. Pettigrew’s alarmed cries were more than he could stand. He bolted outside and promptly got soaked.

The driver, Reggie Humbolt, glared at him. I’ll have that backward by-blow of Charlie’s fired for this. Look what he’s done.

Gregory glanced from the man’s pointing finger to the wheel. It wasn’t quite off, but hanging by a hair.

Can you fix it?

Don’t see why we can’t. You tell Mrs. Pettigrew to sit tight and rouse that drummer.

I heard you, Mr. Humbolt. You can be assured I will sit right here. I charge you to hurry. Poor Posie is a nervous wreck with your reckless driving.

Wasn’t my driving, ma’am. Was Charlie’s boy that didn’t do as he was told. Warned him that wheel seemed loose. Told him to check it. I might be old, ma’am, but I ain’t blind. Know when something needs doin’.

Gregory wiped the water dripping down his face and leaned against the door. Mrs. Pettigrew, might I impose on you to wake the gentleman?

He’s drunk. Didn’t turn a hair when we stopped.

Please try. I believe we’ll need his help. He was thankful that his daily bouts of fencing kept him in good physical shape. And he discovered that beneath Mrs. Pettigrew’s breast, there beat the heart of a shrew. She prodded the drummer with the tip of her parasol, calling curses upon his head, invoking him to wake up and help his betters or suffer deserved persecution at the hands of the newly formed Hillsboro temperance league.

The man mumbled, curled to his side and snored.

Worthless, the woman announced.

And that ended that.

Reggie removed a short, stout log from beneath the stage, then a shovel. We’ll get this fixed in a shake of a calf’s tail. You wedge the shovel beneath the wheel while I brace it up. We’ll knock it back in place and be on our way.

Sounds simple enough. Gregory harbored doubts, but he was willing to try. Rain soaked his clothing until it clung to his skin. He followed Reggie’s orders, but the man had no idea that Gregory had never used a shovel. The mud made it easy to position the shovel beneath the wheel, but each time he exerted his weight, he sank into the mud. Martin, his valet, would cringe to see his half boots and vocally despair of ever setting them to rights. It was the least of his problems.

Sitting in a stagecoach for three days had not kept his muscles limber despite the continuous jolts and swaying. The strain of his effort to follow Reggie’s gruff orders showed with immediate aches and a sweat. Chilled to the bone, he swore as rain collected in his hat brim, and each time he bent his head, water dripped down to blind him.

Gregory lost track of time. Finally, Reggie motioned him aside and pounded the wheel back onto the axle with his stout board. Shaking from his labor and the lingering weakness of his illness, Gregory had to make several attempts before he entered the stage.

Mrs. Pettigrew unselfishly offered him her shawl as he regained his seat. He refused, and thanked her for the kind offer.

He needed a blanket. A thick wool one. And a down-filled comforter. Woolen socks and his cashmere robe. A fire. A hot bath, and Martin bringing him a stein of hot buttered rum.

And quiet. Blessedly peaceful quiet.

Not, he thought, necessarily in that order. But all would be most welcome. He couldn’t have any of the material things his wealth afforded to comfort him. He couldn’t even have relief from the woman’s infernal fussing.

So he sat, dripping water and plastered with mud, squishing in his corner of the seat as Reggie sent the horses racing along.

There was nothing whatsoever he could do about the matter. There was really no point now in teasing his mind with the horrors his rash decision might have in store for him.

But his thoughts turned to his coming meeting with the widow Hill. Lord, grant this one wish. Let the woman be kind and compassionate, and have an obedient streak the width of Mrs. Pettigrew’s bustle.

And mute, he muttered as the solicitous woman prosed on about the ailments one could take from a chill.

Definitely mute. Gregory glanced balefully at the unconscious figure of the snoring drummer, wriggled downward in his seat and closed his eyes.

The Lord and fate would never be so cruel as to deny him his wish.

Chapter Two

Catherine Rose Hill in twenty-two years had never outgrown her love for surprises. She believed that to be true until today. And as her income-producing flock of chickens had grown over this past year, she had developed a tendency to name her days after the various ways to cook eggs.

Some days were as soft as a three-minute egg, a few were hard-boiled, some deviled, others poached. Here and there were scrambled days, others perfect sunny-side up ones—which Catherine loved best of all. Then came over-easy days, a second favorite. Of course, there were the rare rotten ones.

This lovely April day of 1882 had brought to her home in Hillsboro in the New Mexico Territory a surprise. One Gregory Michael Mayfield the third, rolled in a rotten, scrambled, bedeviled omelette.

Her paying houseguest—and from the amount of luggage in the Bott’s Livery buckboard, it could be no one else—had arrived three weeks early.

Catherine, perched in the upper branches of a newly budded cottonwood tree, wondered if she had made a terrible mistake in agreeing with her friend’s madcap scheme to save her brother from himself.

In the next moment she reversed her thinking. It was uncharitable to doubt her friend’s motives as anything but sincere. The man had been ill, was in need of rest.

A more practical side of her nature reminded her of the fact that she had already spent his money. She didn’t have the funds to replace what he’d paid, and couldn’t back out of the arrangement she had made with his sister.

Friends did not desert each other when in need. And Suzanne, despite the miles and years that separated them, was a good friend.

Still, Catherine hesitated to make her presence known to him.

There was something odd about his appearance as he climbed down from the buckboard and approached the front of the house. Suzanne had warned her that her brother was a stickler for social niceties. He’d be appalled if she called out to him while up the tree.

But Catherine’s hard-won independence and all it entailed reasserted itself. She no longer depended upon anyone to order her days or make decisions for her. Those restrictive days had ended with her husband’s death. She could handle one male boarder for a short time. Only a month. If all went well with her friend Mary’s birthing, then Sarah, a widow like herself and owner of the house, would return before the end of Mr. Mayfield’s stay.

Then again, Sarah had been vague about when she would return.

Catherine pressed back against the crook of the tree. If asked at this moment, she couldn’t have explained why she continued her hidden observation of the perplexed male who peered into the parlor window.

But he was closer now. A black brimmed hat hid his face. She realized the brim drooped. Some new fashion from New York, no doubt.

He stepped to the edge of the porch. Catherine looked straight down at him. The impeccably tailored gray suit clung to his wiry build. There was something wrong with the way he looked, but she couldn’t define it. She wished she remembered more of Gregory Mayfield as he had been, to better judge the man he had become.

But impressions made on a six-year-old mind of a young man sent off to military school were at best vague. Gregory, at fourteen, had had little time for either his sister or her friends.

Enough musing! She had to get down with the kitten she had climbed the tree to rescue without Mr. Mayfield seeing her. Easier thought than done.

If Lord Romeo behaved as an adult cat should, he would be the one caught out on a limb.

The tabby kitten resisted her coaxing. Catherine braced herself. She lifted the kitten and tucked it between her shirt and camisole. Freeing a bit more of her shirt from her pants made a pocket.

Poor baby, she whispered, wincing as the kitten’s tiny claws, sharp as needles, pierced her skin. We’ll both owe Lord Romeo for this one.

The weighty, battle-scarred tom with orange-marmalade and new-cream-colored stripes felt it was beneath his dignity to climb trees for any reason. But then, Lord Romeo had other uncatlike traits she tried not to dwell upon.

The sudden pounding on the front door warned her of her guest’s impatience. And Suzanne would not appreciate the welcome, or rather the lack of one, that Catherine offered her brother. Not after the trouble Suzanne had gone to getting her brother to agree to this trip.

But why did the man have to arrive so early!

Catherine felt for the branch below with one foot. When her footing was secure, she stretched once more for a lower limb. Her hands scraped against the bark of the tree as she slid a little. She tried to ignore the mewling of the frightened kitten, but she couldn’t ignore the claws digging into her tender skin.

She couldn’t press tight to the trunk or she would crush the kitten. Her arms were stretched high above her head, her long legs stretched below as she sought firm purchase on another limb.

Just as her foot pressed against the solid branch, the kitten wiggled its way to her side. Catherine released the branch with one hand to hold the kitten still while she was placing her other foot on the limb below.

She had never mastered the art